


The Language of Flowers

by ballpoint



Category: Marvel, Marvel 616
Genre: F/M, Infidelity, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-05
Updated: 2012-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:06:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/ballpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once a year, Namor sends Susan flowers, and it's the thrill of being caught that makes Namor and Sue do what they do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Language of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Fills written for fic promptly. Characters and their respective likenesses belong to Marvel Productions, no money is being made from this. Entertainment purposes only.

**A Question of Lust**

"We..." Sue breathed, her eyes sliding closed as Namor's body pressed against hers into the pantry, the edges of the counter and the convex curves of the various jars a chilled presence against her heated flesh. "We shouldn't do this," Sue moaned, as Namor pressed open kisses against the column of her neck, his hands pressed against her ribcage, a thumb flicking at a now hardened nipple. 

"There's an open house tonight of The Future Foundation," Namor's voice dark, and serpentine, as he pressed his erection against her core. "It's rare to have such an established and venerable residence so- _available_ ," he paused, his fingers curling into the delicate fabric of her dress, and inching it down her chest, his mouth following the line and shape of her breasts to her nipple. Sue clenched her stomach muscles, as her hands drifted to his waist, drawing him closer...

"Sue?" That was Carol, her voice threading through the slap of her heels against the kitchen floor. "Sorry to be such a PITA, but the bubbly is running low and Johnny said that you'd handle it?"

Sue closed her eyes, and found the strength to make her voice steady as Namor's thumb flicked against the now hardened bead of her nipple. 

"T-thanks Carol, I'll deal with it." 

"Hey, you're in the pantry? Can I come in?" 

"No, _no_ ," Sue gritted her voice, as Namor bent his head, his breath hot and moist on her nipple. "I'll be right out."

"It's your funeral," Carol's voice was easy, and Sue groaned, at how unerringly accurate it was.

II

"They sent you in here," Namor's eyebrows raised even higher, almost to his hairline if that could be believed - as he gazed at Sue, his eyes hot with the emotion that lived there. "Even though-"

"The others can't trust you," Susan said, as she stood by the window, staring outside. 

Despite their varying degrees of intimacy, Susan never looked in his direction any more than she had to. Her profile enchanted him. Her face either as serene as waves gently lapping on the beach, or as fierce as a thunderstorm on the seas. Her body a delight - toned and firm yet _womanly_ \- enhanced by the births of her children, and Namor found himself crossing the room to her, the carpet swallowing his approach underfoot. 

"Will not, you mean. Although I am a king, and my word is my honour.”

“Of the seas, Namor.”

“Three fifths of the earth’s service, Susan Storm.” Never Mrs Richards, he’d never call her that, not while they were alone. Susan was _his_ , or truth be told, he _hers_ , but to admit that would be be folly. 

“Who’s out there?” Namor rasped as he stood behind her, his hand drifting to the nape of her neck, warmed by the fall of her hair. There was pleasure in the hitch of her breath, of how she _responded_ to him, and he fell upon her neck, and laved kisses there. 

“I don’t... know,” her words softened by the husk of her arousal, because they both knew what Namor could do to her with just his hands and mouth. Each caress rocking through her core like a storm tossed ship at sea, when she’d give them a chance. 

“ _Namor_.”

“Don’t turn around,” Namor found the catch of her uniform, that hidden zipper just there, and inched it down, the material falling away from her body, belying its snug nature. Trust Richards to build better lyrca, he thought, then thought no more as his lips skimmed the muscles of her back, his hands holding her, as Susan shifted, bracing her hands against the wide expanse of window. 

“They-” Susan started, and Namor didn’t let her finish as he held her hips fast, guided her around, sure in his will that she would acquiesce, and she did, her thighs muscular, free of their encasing, her pubis covered by the dusting of hair and sheer silk. This was a drug, he knew, giving her pleasure, and the feedback from her reactions kept him coming back, although he knew it would only bring them ruin. 

Namor nosed her centre, inhaling her salty brine, weighed down with her musk. He tongued her, because Susan tasted better than she smelt, as she melted around him, her thighs on either side of his face, and ears. His hands moved to support her, because when his mouth was on her, she’d fly, her moving her clit against his tongue, his name on hers. 

“Namor, pl-” and that made him hard to weeping, but he didn’t touch himself, no. The throbbing between his legs a loved sacrifice as he laved her clit, his tongue spearing her centre, his erection admantine when she was moved to swearing. “Don’t stop,” Susan begged, her fingers twisting and tugging in his hair. 

Namor raised his eyes, and saw Susan, backlit by the sun, her body rose and gold against the azure of the sky through the glass. Her beauty more goddess than surface human, she more sensual than any nymph of legend, and he closed his eyes, knowing the tattoo of her reaction and this picture would be seared into his retinas. 

Still, he hoped that whomever was out there would take a picture. At least then, he’d have more than stolen moments and memories. 

**The Language of Flowers**

There are things that Reed never asks Sue. 

That is fine, she thinks, when she takes the bouquet of flowers presented by the doorman. 

"Oh, Stanley," she smiles, gathering them into her arms even though her heart feels as if it is being wrung in opposite directions, like a muscle under strong fists. "You shouldn't have."

Stanley smiles back, the light glinting from his glasses as big as his grin, as he doffs his hat to her, old world manners in big and bold New York. "Only the best for you, Mz Richards," he says, and Sue keeps up the smile until she gets to the lobby, scrambles into the elevator, the pleasant countenance on her face artificial like her makeup, although the heightened colour in her cheeks isn't from the judicious application of blusher. 

When she opens the note, it only says, "Mine, N". The flowers speak the words that Namor can't bring himself to say; orange azaleas, carnations, in various shades of red and pink, offset with the delicate green of ferns. 

She remembers when it started, when he approached her, bracing her shoulders as she said the words that set an abyss between them. She'd asked for privacy, and Namor granted it, with them on a whale, with its skin sea slippery underfoot, the roar of the breezes around them, on the Atlantic, but they managed. 

"I choose Reed," she began, sorry for the hurt that flashed in his eyes while the rest of his face remained impassive. "Please understand, I-"

“You and me- you cannot deny us, pretend that what we feel is some chimera. Susan, you've never needed to know how I feel, how _we_ feel."

"I know," Sue swallowed, not sparing herself to look away, despite her eyes tearing from wind and emotions she dared not name. "But I have _children_ , and they have a father and a _home_. You desire me, but your people would never accept them."

"My will-"

"A king's will is only currency when it's accepted by his people, you know that. Your subjects might accept me- but my children would be a step too far, you know it, I know it."

"That's your final answer?"

"That's the only answer."

Namor's hands slid from her shoulders, as he dropped to his knee, and rested his hand against the whale's back, his muscles sheened by the sea and sunlight. "I'll have you sent to shore."

Without so much as a backward glance, he dived into the water, his form as smooth as a dorsal fin cleaving through waves, leaving Sue on the back of the whale as it pulled her away from Namor, and the place he called home. 

***

Weeks passed, and Sue spent it protecting the world, putting her children to bed, laughing when Valeria touched her nose with chubby fingers.

“Mommy is sunburnt,” Valeria said, and instead of kissing it better like other children would, she produced a potion. “No aloe vera, because I know you’re allergic, Mommy,” she said, smearing it on Sue’s nose and cheeks, with a deft grace not normally found in a child so young. 

As the red marks around her face and shoulders healed, she thought her heart would as well. Namor had been nothing but a - _dalliance_ \- albeit a dangerous one. His emotions a storm of tumult, to Reed’s distant fondness. Namor, when they had - the time when she visited him underwater to plead her husband’s position before she defected from it in due course- he’d bade his subjects leave them alone, stripped her naked and feasted on her. She couldn’t respond- not in the way she wanted to, tasting him with her mouth, as well as tracing his form with her hands - because of the rebreather she constructed for herself from her powers, timed enough for two hours of debate, and cajoling. 

Only for her to be spread across his throne, his kneeling in front of her, as if he were a supplicant, her breasts red and rosy from his ministrations. Her flesh sensitised to the eddies of water, an anteroom built specially for frail human bodies against the relentless pressure of the deep, and by the time he entered her, as pulsing and relentless as the waves above them, Sue only knew his name. 

“ _Vanity Fair_ for me, _Scientific American_ for Reed, and these are for you, Suze,” Johnny said, before placing a pot of flowers in her lap. Lilac edged petals, a sharp edge to deep, intense purple, the deeper the colour as it got to the heart of the flower. Sue traced her fingers along the edges of the petals, and before she even opened the little card tucked into the petals, she knew who sent them. 

Yours, N

***

When Johnny died, and she came home and managed- to put her children to bed, to save the world for another day, Sue stepped in, saw the elegant crystal vase of flowers on the table that the housekeeper put there.

The air sharpened with the scent of pine, the white petals of poppy a punctuation of colour along with the deep crimson, and bright red of roses. The scents deep, rich, and Sue came over, and traced her fingers along the stem, and if she closed her eyes, Namor’s fingers would skim hers, his lips against her temple, his body firm and unyielding, as she hurled herself against him and shattered around him, like a wave striking a rock. 

“Beautiful flowers, and appropriate,” Reed observed. “Love, regrets and hope and pity. It’s touching. Do you know who sent these? We should send a card of thanks.”

“It’s just a friend, who likes flowers. I get them from time to time.”

“There are worse things, the aesthetic is highly evolved.” 

Sue leaned forward and inhaled the scent of the bouquet, before she tenderly kissed the crimson rose, and carried the vase of flowers into their bedroom.


End file.
